Come Up the Years
by p.a.m. kez
Summary: An improved version of the story I had going before. Life on and off the battlefield in the mid-twentieth century  and the occasional lapse in time on my part .


_A/N: You may have noticed I rewrote everything! Yeah, I was unsatisfied both with my writing and with my portrayal of Uli the Sniper. I feel I wrote her too lighthearted and friendly when what I really wanted was for her to be more cynical and sarcastic (as most Germans are). Also the writing overall sucked. If anyone is upset by/dislikes the change, I'm sincerely sorry. But I really like this version, so let's go with it!_

New recruits were generally brought to 2Fort via a solitary train that seemingly came from nowhere. It was intended for cargo, meaning that passengers were seated among large crates, bags, and boxes.

After bidding her beloved uncles farewell, Ulrike boarded one of the freights and wedged herself in a corner atop a large crate and between two other, smaller ones. She wondered what they contained and how they were handled. Probably the Heavy could manage the larger crates, but what about getting them in and out of the freight car? The platform seemed pretty low.

She sighed at the thought of her uncles, BLU's former Heavy and Medic. They were only allowed to escort her to the remote station where the train started; due to their being retired, they were not allowed back at the BLU Base or any other associated areas. She could still visit them, at least, but it would have been nice to be shown around the base by a familiar face.

Earlier, the former Medic gave her a note, which he told her to read later, when she was on the train or in her room at the base. She pulled it out of her jacket pocket and unfolded the wrinkled stationery paper.

_Ulrike—_

_You have much excitement ahead of you. Team Fortress keeps its mercenaries for long periods of time; your five-year contract is relatively short by comparison. I must tell you, you will be killed several times. Over and over. While you may suffer scars, you will never actually be permanently killed there.  
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_Speaking of, the Sniper will teach you what to know on the battlefield (he will be the tall Australian with Aviator sunglasses and poor hygiene), but I think I ought to tell you what to know off it._

_At certain times, you will be allowed to go into town. As you are unable to drive, I bought you a bicycle. The Engineer knows where it is. _

_There is a strong sense of camaraderie amongst the team members, although it may not be outright obvious. There will be constant quarreling, roughhousing and overall noisiness. I don't suppose this will disturb you, but I would recommend making yourself as outwardly masculine as possible. I am not saying that your team will try to rape you (although a RED might—never let any of them figure out your sex!), but, on a team full of men, it would probably make it easier for them to get along with you and take you more seriously._

_Some you may or may not get along with. I can think of several whom I would love to extract teeth from sans anesthesia. But try as best as you can. _

_Do as I say, not as I do. Try not to get too close to any of your teammates. You might fall in love, as I did, and love can only lead to trouble, especially when constantly in close quarters with people. (That is not to say that I regret anything, or do not love my _[Heavy]_; just be careful, all right?)_

_With much regard, _

[Medic]

The Medic had been rather conflicted about whether or not to recommend her to the BLU Team. He spent a lot of time pacing and arguing with his conscience before finally he decided that, given Ulrike's history, perhaps a few years as a mercenary would be good for her.

And so, after spending a few marvelous days in New York City, Ulrike found herself being carried like cargo to God-knew-where, USA. The train ride was not actually very long, but it was dull. There were no windows, so she spent most of it attempting to sleep.

Eventually it stopped and she could hear the doors to the other cars sliding open. Ulrike stretched out and her joints popped loudly.

"Here we are," she heard someone outside say and covered her eyes to block out the sunlight that came pouring in. Ulrike grabbed her luggage, which consisted only of a rucksack and suitcase, and was helped down by a tall, lanky man (she assumed he was in casual-wear until she spotted other oddly-dressed fellows, all in blue) whom she immediately identified as the Sniper. "Hope you didn't pack too many clothes," he said, eyeing her suitcase, "Most'f them'll be confiscated."

"No, I did not," Ulrike said in what she hoped was a convincing British accent. "You are the Sniper, I presume?"

"Sure am, mate," he said as they shook hands. He gave her a funny look. "You sure you're from Germany?"

"I come from a lot of places," she shrugged.

"Well, come on then; we should get going back to the base…"

"You mean it's not here?" Ulrike cried.

"No," the Sniper offered a laugh, "The higher-ups like to make everything all spaced out, it seems." He called out to a young man with his head stuck in a large bag. "'Ey, Scout! Get over here!" The boy looked up and hefted the bag over his shoulder before running up to them.

"Yeah, we goin' now?" he asked.

"We are, but first, I want you to meet my new protégée."

"Uh, hey," the Scout stumbled a bit, and then slicked his hair back, subtly flexing his arm in the process. "How _you _doin'?" He grinned at her.

Ulrike laughed loudly (which bruised his pride a little).

"Are you the same Scout who I got the tapes from?"

"Yup! My ma got me an 8-track for my birthday, so I figured I could spare an act of charity…" he shifted on his feet.

"Pleased to finally meet you in person," she extended her hand, which the Scout slapped into a rough but simultaneously flimsy handshake. "You have excellent taste in music. I'm so sad that both Jimi and Janis are dead! Aren't you?" At this point, they started back to the Sniper's van.

"Heh, yeah, I really loved—"

"I also enjoyed the five page essay you included. I could not understand a lick of it." She peered over at him with a weird little Mona Lisa smirk.

"Did I do that? Huh," he appeared to be racking his brain, "I must'a been high or somethin'. I don't remember doin' that."

"I have kept it with me all this time, if you ever want to see. It gives me such inspiration. I shed a tear." He could not tell if she whether or not she was joking. Probably it was the former.

"Just to let you know," the Sniper said once they were all piled in his van, "Until I retire, you won't be referred to by name. And you won't be called 'Sniper', neither."

"Well, what will I be called, then?" Ulrike forced a smile.

For whatever reason, mercenaries-in-training were often called "Rookies", a term with uncertain origins, though most claimed it was some long-ago merc's mispronunciation of (or inability to pronounce) "recruit." As Ulrike had no previous mercenary training, this made her the Team Rookie ("until further notice," said a flyer some miscreant posted on her door).

Already her new life was interesting.


End file.
